Anyway, my dad was involved in a feud with an African Grey parrot for several years. No one knows how said parrot came to be in our Scottish village, it simply showed up one day at the rescue and the local hairdresser, Sharron, adopted it.
Now if you don’t know much about African Greys, they’re chatty buggers. They’re also wicked smart and incredible mimics. Which was how Marty the Parrot became an infamous feature of our wee town; frequently escaping his enclosure to perch above the barbershop door, hurling Scottish colloquialisms at unsuspecting tourists and whistling the ice cream truck song whenever kids walked past. One time, some construction workers drilled through the water pipe that ran through the village square, and above the roar of water spewing forth into the street and alarmed swearing, Marty could be heard cackling like a demon through the window. Right until the water reached the barbershop door and flooded the ground floor room he was sitting in, and then he started screaming, “help! help! murder murder polis*!”** until he was rescued and offered a plain digestive biscuit.
After that and many, many more escape attempts and being asked politely by the local tourist board if Marty could stop telling hikers to “away and pish!” Sharron took him to see some sort of bird whisperer who told her Marty was lonely and needed company. So she moved his cage into the barbershop during the day so he could see and talk to her and the customers.
Which is where my dad comes in.
You should know that my dad is the epitome of a wee auld Scottish granda. He’s had a full head of white hair since his early forties, and wouldn’t look out of place in a Norman Rockwell painting in Norman Rockwell ever took a wander doon the Barras and got swindled into buying a TV that quite-very-probably fell off the back of a truck. He’s got the gift for the gab, and everyone likes him. Sometimes against their better judgement. Everyone, that is, except Marty.
At some point, Marty picked up the habit of complimenting customers. He’d wait till Sharron was done with their hair, then wolf whistle and demand “who’s a pretty boy then?” in a broad Scots accent that ought to have defied avian vocalities. Sometimes he’d even do it before if he liked the customer. But regardless, he’d always chat with customers, even if it was just nonsense phrases like “Oh aye?” *whistles* “Iz at right?” *click click.*
Now my dad knew this about Marty. He knew it from local chat and from watching the bird fawn over customers as he and my brother waited their turn. So it came as quite a surprise when my dad sat down in Sharron’s chair and was met with stony silence. The way he tells it, Marty stared at him dead on in silence, methodically cracking seeds between his talons. When my brother was done with his haircut in the neighboring chair, Marty turned and gave a shrill whistle, followed by his customary “who’s a pretty boy then?” before resuming his death glare at my dad, who by now was feeling a bit unnerved by the unwavering eye contact and the nut cracking. The uncharacteristic silence continued, even when my dad was getting ready to leave. There was no whistle, no “who’s a pretty boy then?” just silence and the sound of seeds being crushed. And then my dad tripped over the step on the way out of the shop, and Marty let out a demonic peal of parrot laughter*** like water circling an open drain. And that was the start of the feud.
After that, whenever my dad went to get a haircut, Marty would talk to him, but only ever in insults. The one time my dad tried asking “who’s a pretty boy?”, the bird replied “naw youse!” before cackling himself into a whistling fit. And every time my dad would come away, determined to get that bloody parrot to whistle at him and ask “who’s a pretty boy then?”
Seeds were bought. Parrot appropriate biscuits were offered up as tribute. All to no avail. But eventually there became a sort of camaraderie in the insults. Like two enemies who know the steps to the dance they’re treading, and who welcome the familiarity of it. Sometimes my dad would just stick his head round the door on his way to work, just to hear the indignant squawk followed by a litany of insults that’d make a tea kettle whistle. And this went on for years, possibly close to a decade.
Parrot and man locked in an ongoing battle of wills to see who would give up first.
Sadly, my dad never got his “who’s a pretty boy then?” whistle. Marty was already old when Sharron rescued him and is no longer with us. I’d like to say he’s looking down on my dad, hurling loving insults, but given that bird’s panache for stealing ice cream cones from unsuspecting children and general flare for terror, it’s probably more likely he’s looking up. Either way, he’s fondly remembered. Especially by my wee auld dad, who while never having got a “who’s a pretty boy then?” did get a “see youse later” one time, which probably counts for more.
